David Coe - Spell Blind

I nodded, jotted down a few last notes, and put the pad and pencil away. I started to reach for my wallet to give him a few bucks for his time, but Doug shook his head.

“No need for that,” he said. He stood, his body unfolding slowly. He was bigger even than I’d thought. He stood a full head taller than me and he was broad in the shoulders and chest. I would have bet good money that he’d played football in college. Maybe even in the pros, back when athletes had to work for a living after they retired.

“Thanks,” I said, holding out a hand.

He gripped it, his hand appearing to swallow mine. “No problem.”

He limped back into the club and I followed. Electric Daiquiri was working their way through another song, the music so loud it hurt. I let myself out of Robo’s without bothering to say goodbye to Randy and Tilo. Once on the street, I began walking back toward the Z-ster, my ears ringing.

I hadn’t taken three steps, though, when I felt it again. I was being watched, tracked. I imagined myself in the crosshairs of a rifle. Except this time I knew the feeling for what it was: magic. I made no effort to find the sorcerer; I didn’t even alter my gait. But I began to mumble the words to a deflection spell, which was one of the most rudimentary wardings I knew. In essence, it redirected any conjuring aimed at me toward something else, an object of my choosing, in this case an SUV parked along the curb in front of me.

But the attack never came. It almost seemed that someone-the Blind Angel Killer? — was playing with me, trying to make me flinch. Or maybe he wanted to see what I was capable of doing before he tried in earnest to kill me. Whatever the explanation, I was growing tired of it. And, to be honest, I was scared. So scared, that by the time I reached the Z-ster, there was sweat on my forehead and neck.

True, I was pretty good at warding magic. But I figured any weremyste who could make his presence known to me in this way wouldn’t have had too much trouble mastering a deflection spell.

I began to relax once I was in the car. This made no sense whatsoever-it’s not as though my 280Z has some magical property that protects me from assailing spells. But sometimes the illusion of safety is enough to get a person through. I started the Z-ster up, pulled away from the curb, and drove down University toward the campus. As soon as I could, though, I doubled back and cruised the street a second time, hoping that maybe I’d catch my secret admirer unawares. But though I made two more passes down the same block, and though I saw a couple of people who shimmered with magic, none of them possessed enough power to be a threat. Either they were small-time conjurers or weremystes who were using blockers to suppress the phasings, and their abilities with them.

I was about to give up and drive over to Orestes Quinley’s place, when I spotted someone of a different sort, though no less interesting.

Billie Castle.

She was stepping into a coffeehouse, a thermal coffee mug in one hand and a computer case slung over the other shoulder. Alarm bells went off in my head. I knew that I should keep driving, keep as far from the woman as I could. She was a reporter, and all she had wanted from me yesterday was information. But I couldn’t deny that there was something intriguing about her. Maybe that was a fancy way of saying that I found her attractive. Intriguing, attractive, a challenge: pick your reason. I thought about stopping to see if I might wrangle a dinner date out of her.

Then I thought better of it.

Then I parked the car and made my way to the coffeehouse.

By the time I was inside and in line, she had her coffee and was setting up her work space at a table in the back. She didn’t notice me, which was probably a good thing. Given the way our last conversation went, I figured the element of surprise was about all I had going for me.

To my amazement, the place served Sumatran coffee. I took it as a sign.

I got my cup and walked back to her table. She had her computer out and was already engrossed in her work. Her hair was down today; it was longer than I’d remembered. She wore a beige linen sports jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and a black t-shirt underneath. Silver and malachite earrings flashed within her curls, and a matching necklace lay against the t-shirt. Tastefully stylish, as well as pretty. I admit it: I was smitten.

Most of the tables in back were open, and I thought about sitting at a table nearby and trying the whole “what-a-coincidence” thing, but she was too smart for that to work. Instead, I went with the direct approach.

“May I join you?”

She glanced at me, did a double-take. “Mister Fearsson!” Her expression turned guarded; I think she expected me to yell at her, or maybe throw a punch.

“I read your article.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No. I. . had a meeting nearby and I saw you come in. I thought I’d say hello.”

“What kind of a meeting?”

A reporter to the core.

“The kind that I’m not going to tell you about.” I reached for the chair opposite hers, and raised an eyebrow. “May I?”

She started to say something; I expect she was going to tell me she was working and didn’t want to be disturbed. But then she smiled. “Sure,” she said, setting her computer aside. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” I sat and sipped my coffee. It was pretty good, almost as good as my own.

“How’s your investigation going?”

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you about that, either.”

“So you’re going to sit there and drink your coffee and not say a word?”

“No,” I said. “I was thinking that we could talk about something other than Claudia Deegan and the Blind Angel murders.”

She shook her head. “Bull. You’re just like me. You don’t want to make small talk. You don’t want to chat with me about the weather or this coffee or the Diamondbacks-”

“You’re a baseball fan?”

“My dad wanted a boy, remember? My point is, you miss being a cop. You’re back working on a case that I’ll bet you’ve been thinking about constantly for a year and a half. You’re as absorbed in your work as I am in mine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” she said, her green eyes dancing. “You want to talk about Claudia Deegan and the other murders.”

“I do?” I asked, laughing.

“Yup. So why don’t you tell me about your meeting and what you’ve learned, instead of playing these games.”

I leaned forward. She did, too, eager, eyes fixed on mine.

“No,” I whispered, and sat back.

Her expression soured. “What is it you’re hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything. That’s the problem I have with reporters. You assume that I have to be hiding something simply because I don’t want to share the details of my investigation with your readers. Isn’t it possible that I have other reasons for keeping these things to myself? Did it ever occur to you that I could actually compromise the investigation by revealing too much?”

She shook her head, a smirk on her face. “That’s an old excuse, Mister Fearsson. Politicians and bureaucrats have been hiding behind that one for a long time. ‘We’re keeping the truth from you,’” she said, in a deep mocking voice, “‘but it’s for your own good.’”

“It’s not an excuse.” I leaned in again. “What if the Blind Angel Killer reads newspapers and blogs?” I asked, my voice low. “I don’t know if he does, but it’s possible, right? I don’t want to tip him off. I certainly don’t want to give him any hints about who I’m talking to, for their sake and mine, too.”

“What about the rest of us?” She gestured toward the front window of the shop. “People out there are terrified of this guy. Don’t they have a right to know how this investigation is going, and how soon they can expect you to catch him?”